“Stanek!” the officer called, drawing the detective’s attention to the find. The detective gestured with his thumb up, then grabbed my arm and led me to an unmarked Tahoe parked behind the Beemer.
Barefoot and still in shock, I let myself be handled by him while I watched the officer seal the bottle ofVisinein a transparent evidence pouch, then sign the back of the pouch with a black Sharpie.
“When did you see Winston Donovan last?” the detective asked me again, opening the back door of the Tahoe and putting a hand on my head to shove me inside.
I didn’t answer. My thoughts raced, spinning out of control, chanting a name rhythmically, like an inescapable obsession.It must’ve been her.
“I need a lawyer and a phone call, please.” He stared at me with loathsome eyes, but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I know my rights.” He slammed the door so forcefully that the entire car shook.
Claire.
She’d killed him, and framed me for it.
27
A Phone Call
The interview room smelled of vomit and sweat and urine, albeit faintly. They’d locked me in a couple of hours earlier, but had the decency to remove my handcuffs. For a while, I’d paced the dirty floor, still barefoot, every now and then staring at the video camera up by the ceiling. A red LED was turned on; the camera was recording every move I made and every word I said.
I didn’t say anything. I knew better.
The room was small, with latex-painted walls in a grayish-cream color, slathered thick over older scratched obscenities and scuff marks. Newer such statements had been scratched since, exposing the white Sheetrock underneath—mostly the four-letter words one rarely finds in the dictionary. After about two hours of waiting, I could think of a few myself.
I sat at the metallic, dented table, on the matching chair that balanced on three of its legs, not all four, wobbling back and forth. I had to keep my weight more to one side, if I wanted it to not move. I sat looking at the two-way mirror, wondering how many people were on the other side, staring at me, and how long they were going to keep me there. My bare feet were freezing on the cement floor, and I kept rubbing them together to keep them warm, but I didn’t think of mypersonal comfort. My racing thoughts were trying to find a way out of this mess. And failing miserably.
Most of all, I desperately tried not to think of Winston. It would’ve broken me to pieces.
When the door opened, I flinched. The chair tilted with a scratchy thud. The detective who’d read me my rights walked in with heavy, determined steps and dropped a thick folder on the table. His salt-and-pepper hair was pasted on his forehead with sweat, and his face looked drawn, tired. The sleeves of his jacket were shiny around the elbows, and a couple of grease spots stained his red tie. He was about fifty-five or so, bulky, with a potbelly that promised some liver problems down the road and some torn shirt buttons quite soon.
“I have some questions,” he said, letting himself drop in the chair opposite me. “I want to know—”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, holding my hands up in a pacifying gesture. “We can’t speak without an attorney present, and not before I have my phone call.”
His eyes glinted at me. “All right, if this is how you want to play it. It’s your life to fuck up. All opportunities for a deal walk out the door with me.”
Exhaling sharply, he grabbed the folder and walked out, leaving the door open. I craned my neck to look after him. He stopped at the nearest empty desk and unplugged the phone, then brought it into the interrogation room, slamming it on the table. “The plug’s in the wall. You have ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” I said, circling the table on the balls of my feet and plugging in the phone. I lifted the receiver and heard a dial tone.
“Jeez, people!” he shouted from the doorway. “Someone get her some goddamn shoes.”
“Thank you,” I said again, but he was already gone, the door slammed behind him.
I slipped back into my old seat at the table. It was the only thing that felt remotely steady in my new circumstances, and I clung to it.My hands hovered over the phone, the keypad a blur through the sting in my eyes. I should’ve been calling a lawyer. That would’ve been the smart move. The reasonable one.
But reason had deserted me. More than anything, I needed to hear my brother’s voice. Ten years of silence weighed heavy, and in this moment of weakness, I longed for Billy Ray, for the one person who’d known me before all the lies.
I dialed the number slowly, hoping the call would be answered, and fearing it at the same time.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said, and I recognized it instantly.
Tears burned the corners of my eyes. “Billy Ray?” I asked, my throat thickening, my chest silently heaving.
For a moment, all I could hear was his choked gasp, then silence.
“Sis? Is that you?”
“Uh-huh,” I whispered, “it’s me. How are you doing?” The Texas drawl had returned to my voice as if I’d never lost it. With it, memories came crashing in. The sound of my little brother’s voice, that night on the porch. The way he’d pleaded with me to not leave him alone with our father. To stay.
